


A Gap In Nature

by grayglube



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Trio of Tales, Angst, Anthology, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Consummation, Voyeurism, valarmorekinks prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:30:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7774429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I cannot in good faith leave you with any opportunity to claim this marriage void.” He is heavy over her, as weighty as duty, as the mantle of power she had worn when she was not yet his wife, his Queen, her freedom had made too many uncertain of what might come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gap In Nature

**Author's Note:**

> Another valarmorekinks fic. 
> 
> Sometimes I have a problem where I have an idea for a fic and then the execution of that idea leads to the trouble of all the different ways the idea gets written. I had three different ideas and could not decide what I liked best, so I had to write them all. The first one is a little angsty, each scene is sort of a different take on Jon and Sansa's relationship too, again I couldn't decide how I like them best. 
> 
> The prompt was: Someone (Littlefinger, Dany etc) believes that they plan on having a sham marriage and demands a public consummation of the marriage. Bonus point if they were right and Jon and Sansa did plan on their marriage being in name only. 
> 
> The title and lines before each scene are from Shakespeare's "Anthony and Cleopatra"

At Winterfell

_A hand that kings have lipped_

_And trembled kissing_

 

He is not afraid when Daenerys Stormborn sends a messenger to tell him of her desire to break words, there is only dread. They are to speak on Sansa.

 

They sit on either side of the strategy table. The maps are put away and there is no war to win now, perhaps one is about to start.

 

“She has a cousin in the Vale and an Uncle in the Riverlands. She is the Lady of Winterfell, and of the," she trails off looks towards an advisor, Brienne of Tarth answers instead when the advisor cannot, "Dreadfort."

 

"Yes, The Dreadfort," there is a sheet of parchment in her hand that she offers back to a messenger, " _and_ Harrenhal if what this says is true, the Regents in the Vale report having bore witness to its signing so it would seem Lord Baelish's wish was that his lands be bequeathed to her in such an event as his death.”

 

Tormund spits, Jon tries to keep from grinning. The woman who looks less aged than him, who calls herself his aunt does not go on, she waits.

 

“She won’t be leaving her home to be given away for a use no woman should suffer, I swore that." He thinks of Ned Stark as he says the words, imbues his tone with a weight and authority he must feel as deeply as the cold if he would continue to be worthy of fealty. "I haven’t had a second death to free me from that oath. You would have me break it for your peace of mind and call it kinship? I’m a bastard in any case, Sansa Stark is a Highborn woman of the North and I am King here.”

 

“The agreement we have come to regarding the sovereignty of the North is contingent to the marriage of Lady Stark to an appropriate suitor.”

 

“I won’t sell my sister.”

 

“Your cousin.”

 

His jaw hurts, he eases the clench of his teeth.

 

“You have one dragon left and precious few horses, Summer has not come and you’ve lost most of your wild horde to the ice and snow. You ask for what I do not have to give.”

 

Her Hand speaks when the rage is soothed by a the lull of their words, “Then we should simply call the Lady here and ask her, should we not?”

 

Daenerys' smile is full of mirth as she looks down at Tyrion Lannister. “This would not be of issue if you’re marriage was not so easily disputed.”

 

“I don’t take children to my bed.”

 

“She isn’t a child now.” Her laughter is like bells, Jon only wants to vault the table and open her skull on the table's edge, color the stone and rolled maps with her brains and blood, he breathes, settles, presses his hands to the table. “You speak of my sister being forced to wed as if it were a simple thing, as if she were not a prisoner as if she was not there to see our father die in King's Landing.”

 

“ _Her_ father.” Tyrion gently corrects, he has the good manners to look stricken and ashamed by the reminder of what the woman they speak of has survived.

 

“The North might remain governed by a King of its own choosing and your sister might keep all she has taken from her suffering, her lands and castles and titles, more than most any Lord in my own kingdom.”

 

“If only you would have me barter with her dignity and her body.”

 

They can only stare back at the other, the small man clears his throat of the cold, “If I might your graces?”

 

“You may.” Daenerys cants her head and gaze away, Jon nods, sternly, a simple downward tilt of the expression he wears like a stone mask.

 

“Lady Stark might have her own say. Perhaps we might call her to bring a close to this.”

 

“You think she would be amenable.” It does not sound like a question to Jon, merely the Dragon Queen stating a fact.

 

“You think she wouldn’t? Why assume such a thing before asking? Brothers often know less than they think of their sisters, take mine own house as sight of that.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa Stark has chosen her betrothed, her cousin the King in the North and Tyrion thinks of Margaery Tyrell and the Queen of Thrones, the girl has become a wolf and it has been a harsh winter. All have left the council room but him and his own queen.

 

“Most like she is barren.” Tyrion tells her, draining the rest of his cup.

 

“But mayhaps she is not.”

 

He only lifts a stiffened shoulder, “Then the North remains the North only they will have a new King one day who might take the knee.”

 

“I don’t want to agree.”

 

“What right have you to him? Because he is blood? What blood is that? Bastard blood, at best. Reed’s words might be better trusted than Connington but Aegon has your look. What do words matter when a man might still see?”

 

“It cannot be questioned.”

 

“Let her have her choice of man so long as there is proof then.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I will not!” His voice booms, it is an insult to all he has done, all they have saved the realm from, all the Starks have suffered.

 

“Jon.” He settles at the first words she has spoken, she does not look at him. At the same moment Theon Greyjoy has risen with the words, “you can’t” on his lips with his wild eyes on the Silver Queen.

 

Sansa eyes the man who betrayed her brother until he has found his way back into an uneasy perch in his chair.

 

“Why those terms?”

 

“I cannot in good faith leave you with any opportunity to claim this marriage void.”

 

Sansa only tilts her head as if weighing the answer, then as if it's been balanced nods, softly.

 

Jon scowls, “It is a slight, or it is about power. Have you more right to ask such things because of a name?” He rises, his chair scrapes loudly on the stone.

 

Sansa turns to look on him and raises a hand plaintively, “Enough, Jon. It isn't as if it hasn’t been done before.”

 

Daenerys leans from her seat, “It?”

 

“Having a witness to the acts of marriage bed.”

 

“The Boltons?” Asks Tyrion.

 

Theon Greyjoy leaves the room without asking to be excused. It is quite sudden that there is an understanding amongst all those at the table, besides perhaps Tormund and Podrick Payne or the woman of many tongues next to the Dragon Queen.

 

“Ramsay Bolton thought the same as you. How many might you have watch me in my marriage bed, then?” The woman he will call Queen of the North has a tongue like dragon glass.

 

* * *

 

 

The Dragon Queen chooses Asha Greyjoy, a Dothraki bloodrider, and a red priestess. Sansa allows him to make the decision of their four. He chooses Tormund who watches for the wildlings, Brienne of Tarth who watches for their household, Gendry the smith who watches for the smallfolk and Wylla Manderly who watches for the Northern houses.  

 

They all agree a banker from the Iron Bank of Braavos might also be called, they who keep records better than the maesters of the citadel.

 

* * *

 

 

He waits, the tapers half-lit, the silks from Pentos and Myr, gifts for their wedding, move in the gentle heat, he can see shadows behind the screens but nothing as distinct as faces, as the eyes watching. Suddenly, the difference between a wilding camp at night under furs or the comfort of his hand in the barracks at the Wall and the open hall of his once-father’s house is startling.

 

She comes in simple garb, like him. Her hair unbound and brushed gleams like a sword, like coins, like the scales of dragons.

 

He swallows, his throat tight and dry, a shiver like the touch of a woman’s nails trips down his spine. He makes to step close to her and the cool voice of a Queen stops him, “Wait, not all have arrived.”

 

His cock flags where it had started to rise. He might have been able to pretend had no one spoken, he might have pretended that he was alone with a woman he now might call something besides sister, a woman he might call wife and mean the word with all it's weight. Bastards should not be gifted with wives, they should not be chosen as husbands.

 

Sansa waits, stares, the maid at her elbow looks at the stones. A wooden chair drags someplace behind him, hushed apologies and the answering forgiveness comes from the boundaries of the hall. The same cool tone as before announces, “You may proceed.”

 

Her face is placid and her maid helps her from her thin simple gown before leaving them to their task under the semblance that they are the ones who command instead of answer and follow. His hands are fists he had not noticed shaking until her long fingers curl around them. She coaxes them into open palms, presses them flat to her own and draws his mouth to hers.

 

There is a shuffle of feet, the dry cough of someone trying to be silent and then the more forceful choking rattle that comes from trying to hold down a scratch in their throat.

 

He falters, when his eyes open she is staring back. Her hands urge him to disrobe and he scowls as she stares between them where he stands no more ready than before. He means to kiss her again, ease himself towards some heated memory, pretend if he must, dishonor her in his mind for a few moments to make himself rise and do the deed and have it be done.

 

She only presses hands to his chest and pushes him back, he follows her guidance numbly and stands before the bed where they are to lie.

 

There’s a muttering of ‘what is she on about?’ and a hiss for silence, the tones are low but he knows it is the Ironborn woman, grinning over ale at whoever has bid her to be silent.

 

The girl he called sister once is his lady wife, he hasn’t touched her and now she stands as if to chastise him for it, as if asking him why he has not done his duty and saved them both this farce.

 

He looks at her, her body is pale and there are scars shallow and more numerous than his own, they rest across the arcs of her bones, one carves under the flare of her ribs, across the tenderness of her navel, it is stark and marring. Down her flank is a twin of the awful thing, a long line of cruelty and rage from a man now dead, a beast devoured.

 

He has seen breasts, but never the ones of a Lady who has had fed and kept from starving for much longer than not, they are high and full and unmarred and their perfect station only cast the scars into harsher contrast.

 

She’s as wild a thing as a spearwife, a wolf, a queen ruling in winter.

 

Someone besides him startles when she puts her hand on his cock, strokes and waits, someone besides him gasps, surprised, it is a girlish sound and his face heats as his cock twitches, dances under her fine boned hands. She is careful with him. She brow quirks up so slight he might not have seen, but he has and he flushes.

 

There is a small guffaw, cut off and roughly silenced with what sounds like a blade being drawn.

 

He stills, so does she. Shuffling and whispers cease, the dragon queen’s lilting angry wind-quiet dothraki tongue sifts through the silks and then ends. He means to say something scathing but Sansa has a hand to his shoulders, pressing him to sit.

 

He turns from her questioning stare when she again looks between them, he is unable to rise enough. She frowns and sighs, once, so slowly he thinks she means to leave and he must accept that he has failed to do what he must to secure his unwanted kingdom and her place in it.

 

She does not leave.

 

She pulls a cushion from their stage of a bed and drops it between his feet, she settles her knees upon it and presses lips to his chest, and lower in a trail of humid heat and he grasps at his perch, words lost and mind left like a candle wick after the flame has been blown out when her tongue tip traces the head of him.

 

It plagues him to know that she must do such a thing and after it has started it wounds him to realize in slow degrees that it is no new task she has set herself to but a skill she had been forced to learn.

 

Under the fall of her hair there is a rough patch were the skin is uneven, a rough callous over the knob of her spine, it curls around, where a rope pulled tight, she does not startle or cease when his fingers touch upon it but he comes away from it as if it might burn him. He does not want to think of the things she has suffered.

 

Her eyes are open, her hand following the bob of her head and it is mesmeric, it is awful, his cock in her mouth, as hot and wet as he has thought her cunt might be when he’s allowed the drift towards sleep to float him towards secret dreams.

 

Her hair falling over and between his thighs is the touch of a dead lover and a living wife, his bollocks tighten and he bleeds out a groan, her mouth is slick, a shine in the wave of light that falls over them as she tips him to his back and climbs astride.

 

She is kissed by fire all over.

 

One hand guides him to where she might open around him, the other holds place over his heart. He shuts his eyes on her open gaze and silent face, she isn’t a woman on top of him, around him, fucking him, she isn’t anything, she’s well practiced at it he knows. It is not the first time she has had to do such things to keep from being hurt worse.

 

The sound of her on him is a slap, over and over and her hair moves like light, someone else hums appreciative beyond the silk screens and his fingers curves over her sharp hips. There are no tears from her, but there is heat behind his eyes and all he knows is shame when he spills. He slips from her and she rises.

 

She dresses and leaves as if there is no one left in the hall, as if she is a ghost.

 

* * *

 

 

He comes upon her as she bathes, her scent is on him still but she only sits in the copper tub as it edges towards dawn, washing the feel of him away he thinks. She lets him wash her hair and comb it free of the tangles he’d twisted into it. He will see her upwards gaze from between his legs for the rest of his days.

 

He weeps then. She startles, “Shush, it’s alright. Like when I prick myself while stitching such a thing is barely felt.” But she does not move to hold him or rise from the tub.

 

He lies his brow to her wet nape and weeps harder.

 

“Hush, Jon. Truly. It is done now.”

* * *

 

  

In the Godswood

_But she makes hungry,_

_where most she satisfies_

 

It’s tradition for a King in the North to be crowned before the weirwood. It’s tradition for their union to take place before it too. Jon thinks hard on the words he’s read a thousand times over in the fortnight past.

 

**_Before gods and men._ **

 

Sansa had gone pale with fury.

 

It’s as much her coronation as it is his.

 

The canopy of skins and the bed of furs is large enough for the whole of their high table to lie amongst them, the guests and their household crowd close to the braziers between the sentinels and the ironwoods. The soldier pines shed needles like snow and the wind howls as loudly as Ghost does in the wolfswood.

 

Tyrion Lannister is somewhere amongst the revelers, he’s come for the peace of mind it will bring his Queen to have the second most powerful woman in the entirety of both Kingdoms properly shackled by bounds of a husband and a King.

 

For true they’ve said vows two moons passed, witnessed and officiated with a Raven sent to the South answered by one of sterner words.

 

**_For the security of both our realms there must be no question of your union’s legitimacy._ **

“Come close,” she whispers, eyes bright and mouth wet with mead. His cock swells at the long strip of her body between the open edges of her fur, a gift from House Mormont trailing behind her naked heels. The white of her throat and the fine bones of her collar, the balmy shine of space like the flat of a sword between the breasts. He’s thought of them, their weight, phantoms in his hands as he dreams in an empty bed. Her navel like the thumbprint of the stranger or the mother above the flaring wings of hips that would bruise him if he took her roughly. The bright floss of her sex, he wants to bury his face there and breath the summer scent of her.

 

**_I will send an appropriate member of my council to bear witness._ **

 

She does not smile even when he is close enough to whisper her name that she might taste the arbor gold on his tongue. He holds her by her arms, strokes down to her hands and lifts them so he might press them to his cheeks. She draws him close and slips her tongue over his teeth.

 

Somewhere their bannermen howl and a bard sings the Dornishman’s Wife.

 

He laughs into her mouth when wildlings groan out and stomp, bellowing out a bawdier song.

 

**_The first day of Summer would be most auspicious._ **

 

The White Raven had come at midday and she had held waited for him in the rookery, he’d rode his horse to near exhaustion back to Winterfell from leagues within the Wolfswood.

 

Her ribs are hot rungs under his hands, “How would you have me?” His voice is a rasp where he wished it to be only steady.

 

“Like the song they’re singing.” Her words are knife sharp and her teeth are unkind as they carve over his jaw.

 

The warbling of a hundred drunken voices carries the words towards him, _the white wolf mounts the red_ and he shivers. Strange hands remove them from their furs, the faceless crowd of guests and their household press them toward their wedding bed.

 

She kneels at the center of so many skins that she might be some wild thing of the forest, or the snows beyond the Wall, she might be made of fire and the dark for the color of her hair and the look in her eyes. He means to bundle her back and cover her, songs and words be damned.

 

The thousand eyes of the gods and the dead and the face of the weirwood might see how badly he aches for her. There’s the shine of her want slicking her thighs and the full rise of teats he’d mouth at to make her weep and thrash as only a woman might under a man who is welcome and wanted.

 

She won’t let him have her as he wants, he swallows his scowl as she turns and offers him her back, silvered with the netting of old scars. He holds himself steady and breaches her with a full stroke, his eyes shut to the watchers, mouth dropped to her shoulder, she smells like smoke and fresh split pine.

 

He holds his hand between the flare of her pretty hips and the rise of her arse, circles inside of her and strokes her into gasping, of opening her knees wide, of tossing her hips back onto him.

 

Someone cries out the _King in the North._ The call goes up and goes on. He reaches below her to band an arm like iron across her chest, to force her spine to meet his chest. There are whistles and more song. She keens against his cheek, her body damp from the heat of his.

 

His laugh is a rumble on her throat when someone calls to her, _kissed by fire_. Askance he sees the tight press of her eyes and licks at her mouth. Her answering glare speaks as harshly as her words might is she were not so angry at him, at Daenerys, at what has grown between them for the two moons of their marriage.

 

He palms at her breast, her heart beats against the lines of his hand and he rubs her back into softness with fingertips touching over where he’s stretched her open for all of their small court to see, she huffs a breath, it catches somewhere inside her mouth.

 

“Hurry.” Her entreaty is met with the long whine of shame, the balmy kiss of her cunt accepts him more sweetly than her held shut mouth.

 

He grins, teeth at her ear.

 

“Peak with me.”

 

“Not here.”

 

She twists against him, they are watched but it no longer matters, he waits for her to decry him and beg off, for her lips to part before he slants a hot kiss over her speechlessness. He spills with a groan, she only sighs pleased for the display to be finished.

 

The North revels and he reaches for her cast off furs and draws them around her. They walk from the godswood as man and wife. Tyrion Lannister raises a cup to them, Sansa tosses her hair and moves like a flare of embers in the dark cradle of night, Jon nods only once and follows.

 

In the quiet of their chamber, away from the eyes of others, or the commands of Queens she pulls on her waiting nightrail. His seed is wet on her thighs, slipping from inside of her. She holds out his nightclothes and watches him dress with odd fascination.

 

The sounds of the night in their wing of Winterfell are the cries of night-birds and wind and wolves. The revelry of the godswood is far from them. It is too warm for a fire in the hearth and she blows out the only candles left lit before she settles into bed beside him.

 

He’s half into sleep with the scent of her on the hand curled next to his face on the pillow when she presses herself to his back. She finds his cock in the dark and strokes him back to readiness, he turns to face her and pulls her gown  to her waist, her leg rises over his hip to pull him close. She glides slickly over his greedy limb.

 

She rocks herself along the length of him and comes to find her own pleasure with her mouth breathing sighs over his brow.

 

She settles into sleep when he slips inside a second time.

 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers.

 

“Tomorrow you go back to your own bed.”

 

He had not noticed he’d followed her to hers, had not noticed she expected it of him.

 

The lord’s chambers belong to a Stark and he is only a king who might pretend.

* * *

 

 

At Summerhall

 

_Sometimes we see a cloud that’s dragonish,_

_A vapor sometime like a bear or lion,_

_A towered citadel, a pendant rock,_

_A forkèd mountain, or blue promontory_

_With trees upon ’t that nod unto the world_

_And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs._

_They are black vesper’s pageants._

They marry before they leave, on the long road south they still sleep in separate chambers such things do not go unnoticed. It is a long journey that takes half a year's turn to complete, they are honored guests of the Dragon Queen who is to marry herself. His aunt questions him over such details as his empty bed, she's offered him wine and fruit and fine gifts and he knows it is meant to loosen his tongue.

 

“I wished to spare her that indignity.”

 

“The ‘indiginity,’ of your marriage bed?”

 

“Of being expected to lie in it, of not having a choice to lie in it.”

 

“That is the obligation that comes with such oaths. I expect this settled, the night of my wedding feast I’ll see it done.”

 

“You would stand as witness?”

 

“My court will and my guests, and of course I. I am still a khalessi and such things are common at dothraki weddings.”

 

He eats if only to keep his mouth from gaping open.

 

* * *

 

There is to be a feast with small plays, music and bards, dancing and a tourney to follow the day after.

 

They are meant to perform during the feast.

 

“She cannot risk seeming weak.” His words do not soothe his wife. “We will be last, there will be,” he looks at the fabric lying across her lap, “costumes, masks.”

 

She scoffs, “They’ll color our hair and hide all our scars and then they’ll watch you mount me on the half-pace.”

 

“Sansa. I could not refuse.”

 

“I would have come to you.”

 

“…”

 

“One day," she sighs.

 

"..."

 

"Just, see it done quickly.”

 

* * *

  

“I’m not going to be her whore to unmask when she sees fit.” She tells Brienne as they work to darken her hair, Brienne is a silent guardian, ever helpful.

 

"You do not have to do this."

 

Sansa frowns, "Of course I must."

 

* * *

 

 

He is prepared, he wonders if she endures the same soft hands with equal distaste. More women come in, “your wife sent us her to you, she told us she could prepare herself but that we should make you quite ready. She is very pretty.”

 

He is stroked and suckled and kissed by too many lips and hands to count, he sends the strange women from his chambers, they titter and drift like smoke out of his path.

 

* * *

 

 

They wear bright robes, until the music rises and the bed where they are meant to lie together is made up for them.

 

He can see the pink of her bare cunt, they’ve shorn her, he’s had his body dusted in gold like a whore. Her hair is blackened and he’s had some silver white mane they must have cut from a horse pinned to his hair.

 

It’s perverse, being meant to act out his own making.

 

* * *

 

 

She rolls her head to the cushions, the smoke is cloying, she is not ready for him, he wonders for a spare moment over the action he might take, she is rigid below him, he whispers to her, “it’s like a song, isn’t it? You’ve always loved songs.” Some around them hear, take him as an actor playing Rhaegar and an ever tender lover.

 

He’s stolen her in grand fashion and has pressed her to a bed of silks and flowers while the harp is plucked, “I would not have you feel discomfort.”

 

She scoffs softly and around them there is a small tinkling wave of laughter, soft and hushed, he wonders how many hold their breath as they watch. But her breath catches, and her body cants up, she is not as made of ice as she pretends to be.

 

* * *

 

 

He licks into her, ardor making skill meaningless. She thrashes. Someone claps loudly for them.

 

* * *

 

 

Her folds are swollen against the thick press of him, the gentle prodding of his lust, the way her body stretches around the intrusion of his body is sweet, she is open and slick and panting for him. He is heavy over her, as weighty as duty, as the mantle of power she had worn when she was not yet his wife, his Queen, her freedom had made too many uncertain of what might come.

 

His face has been shorn as smooth as her mound, across her breasts his mouth is as soft as a woman’s, without the scratch of his beard she falls further into a dream, he laves at her and each answering twist of her hips and press of her heels into the bed, his calves, his arse helps his cock sink more deeply inside of her body.

 

She’s been breached before but never so gently, her face is damp. His mouth twists into something pained, as if he has done her some great wrong, she reaches for his mouth and kisses away his broodiness.

 

Hands of others touch at his hair and the backs of his shoulders, fingers stroke over hers and the wedding guests of the Dragon Queen trail past, a girl with green hair tosses bright petals upon their bedding scene, arbor gold sluices down his back from the cup of sellsword knight, her hands run through in, an old woman runs a long gentle touch up the sole of her foot and chuffs softly as she goes, a singing minstrel blows sweet smoke between them both.

 

He surges and she swells, the hall is the frantic quickening of the harp and the slick sounds of their false played love, the hot bed play they have neither one of them have truely known, she holds him and her mouth is a damp humid press of anguish on his throat, her body pulls and jerks only to press close a moment after.

 

“Would you have come to my bed, if this was not to happen?”

 

Her eyes are bright and wet, “yes.”

 

Her sex grips at him, lovingly, all the warmth of a lover is between her thighs and around him she is ashamed and she is tired and he feels badly for much of what they have been forced to do, but not all, not nearly enough of all.

 

Her peak is as gentle as Summer wind and his punches through him like a tempest, the music slowly ceases, the harp is plucked once more and silks are spread over them, hidden from sight for a moment he opens his eyes and she tries for a smile she can only half form.

 

They rise from their false bed of pageantry and the presumption of love. They stand and are draped in robes. The hall is a clangor of pretty sounds, music and laughter. She pulls his mask from him, and then the false silver of his hair, she drops the disguise between their feet.

 

From her simple throne Daenerys holds her hands apart, frozen as she’d been about to laugh and clap for what was meant to be an act, revealed only later as something more real.

 

He has no answering action to his own wife’s willingness to expose his identity to all of the southron court.

 

A second mask falls between their bare feet and when his wife kisses him it is meant to be a grander display than the make-believe acts of love between dead princes and stolen maidens.

 

The hall erupts, their own household guffaws and cheers and toasts.

 

The girl he once called sister, the woman he calls wife calls out to the Queen of Dragons, “I had heard at Dothraki weddings such things were common, it is a good tradition, I think. We celebrate the marriage of two true Targaryens this night.”

 

* * *

 

 

Tyrion Lannister toasts them in their chambers not an hour past the end of the festivities.

 

“Did you know Robert Baratheon bed a wench in Stannis’ marriage bed before the groom made use of it? They’ll remember her wedding feast as the night the King in the North fucked the Red Wolf of Winterfell while the entire realm watched, they’ll say you are the greatest lover they have ever seen and your wife is the queen who sounds like a song when she peaks. Daenerys has her proof, for what it cost her.”

 

* * *

 

 

The morning that follows is a quiet affair. He wonders if she aches between her legs from their union, he can still feel the heat of her on his cock and taste the tang and salt of her sex on his mouth.

 

“Where are you going?” He asks her as she rises from her desk of letters, he has already sealed his own. She reaches to smooth the folds of her skirts, “We are going to break our fast with the Queen and her King Consort and after you will go down to your knees and kiss me as you did a night hence and perhaps soon, on our way home one night I will come to your bed.”

 

 

 


End file.
